


Violet Veins

by trashmovthtoziers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Bad Parenting, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends, Bisexual Richie Tozier, F/M, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gryffindor!Eddie, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Idiots in Love, M/M, Multi, Oblivious Richie Tozier, Ravenclaw!Richie, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Sad Richie Tozier, Slow Burn, Teenage Dorks, for the sake of the story!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 18:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16686820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashmovthtoziers/pseuds/trashmovthtoziers
Summary: With the Dark Lord on the rise somewhere outside of the castle walls, Richie finds solace in his friends (and even his so-called enemies) as he makes his rocky way through his final year at Hogwarts.





	Violet Veins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a repost-- i'm sorry! i'd recently uncovered this fanfiction from the depths of my tumblr account and realized how much potential it actually had. i really, truly had FUN writing this chapter. it was one of those where my words really flowed. honestly, it kinda flopped the first time i posted it and it'll probably flop this time, too, but i've realized that i don't care how many people read/review it, i had fun and i want to continue to have fun. 
> 
> thanks :)

From what he was told, _real_ parents — sincere ones — put their children above their own selfish wants and needs. His showed him otherwise.

 

Richie let out an exhale of frustration as he slammed his textbook closed.

For the entire summer, he had done anything but think about his stupid summer homework of which was due the moment he made it back to school. He should've done it earlier in the summer — he knew that — since on some days, the sweltering summer heat had been enough to force him indoors with ample time to where he could finish the work of which he had been dreading, but the fact that he actually had to _do_ that work by the time the term rolled around eventually slipped his mind. Back then, the start of the term seemed far, far away. Now, it wasn't as far as he would've liked. In fact, the term started the _following day_. He had a decent reason to be stressed out, that’s for sure.

He knew that he should be grateful, for most children would've easily dealt with this load of summer homework if their actual work was like Richie's — Potions, Charms, Herbology. It would sound completely and utterly foreign to any normal person, but Richie was anything but. He was a wizard, and the school of which assigned his dreaded summer homework and taught such bizarre courses was for children who possessed magical abilities and Richie, as aforementioned, was one of them.

As if sparked, he remembered that one of his school textbooks was still downstairs from one time where his friend Stan (who, despite being friends with Richie, cared excessively about his studies) had come over. Stan had tried — keyword: _tried_ — to force-feed him the awareness of his summer work, but to no such avail. Richie had pretended to listen then, and, with a practiced ease, had persuaded Stan to ditch the books and head out into town for a cone of ice cream instead. Stan had relented (much to both his and Richie's complete surprise) and only minutes later, the two were trekking toward the ice cream parlor with excited smiles on their faces, chatting aimlessly.

Richie tossed his peacock-feather quill onto his Potions textbook. As the ink that had been left on the quill splattered on the wretched thing, sure to leave a fierce stain, he didn't as much as bat an eyelid. He stood up, and if you looked past the fact that he tripped over several items of discarded clothing, knocked an expensive glass toad off of its shelf, and ran into his dresser, he made it out of his bedroom essentially unscathed.

As he padded down the corridor with its carved walnut ceilings, jade-and-white damask wallpaper, and luxurious velvet runners, he didn't at all look to recognize the Victorian elegance of it, as he had lived in this house (mansion, rather) for most of his life. At the end of the day, _sure_ , he appreciated it — he really did — but, to tell the truth, he was spoiled rotten. Unlike most, he didn't boast about how wealthy he (or, more specifically, his family) was. He simply appreciated it in silence, kept it to himself.

He descended the staircase, his mind awirl. It was awhirl with, not troubled thoughts, but with thousands of possible ways of which he could lie to his teachers about his summer homework so that he didn't have to do it in the first place. Perhaps he could convince them that he had been grieving the loss of his one and only Muggle friend over the summer, but, then again, he was almost sure that McGonagall would somehow attempt confirm this with his parents, so he chose to wrack his brain for something else to use.

However, he couldn't delve into his mind much further, as he was met in the parlor with his mother. Mrs. Tozier was slumped (yes, _slumped_ ) in a chair beside the furnace. This confused him, for he didn't think he had ever seen her not sit stick-straight before. But what was beside her, on a little table made of walnut, confused him the most. Two bottles of what looked to be wine were sat there, and, as the furnace blazed a bluish hue, the bottles twinkled as the light bounced off of them. One bottle was empty. There was no wine glass, he realized, just the bottles.

Richie blinked in bewilderment. "M-Mom?"

Mrs. Tozier whirled around to look at him. Richie stared, rendered without words for the first time in quite a while. She looked at him, and he realized almost instantly that she was not all there. Mentally, that is. He half-expected something strange to happen — for her pores to ooze with a fetid puss, for her head to swell with a disease that fucked with the brain. A zombie. Inhuman. Undead. Then, all of a sudden, she launched herself out of her chair and across the room, toward Richie.  
  
He instinctively took several steps backward, but she continued forward. She took him from around the wrist, digging her razor-sharp fingernails into his skin. He cried out in pain. Now, as she stood close, he could almost picture her sprouting pointed fangs or patches of hair on her cheeks, but neither happened.

Instead, she screeched, "You, child!" Richie tried to free himself of her, but she held on tight. "You're the reason for this! You're the reason for it _all_! You messed everything up, you selfish pig!" His mother — all bones and elbows like her son; innocent — was gone, replaced with... _this._

Richie was afraid of her — he would even admit it — but he still managed to choke out, "What are you talking about?"

"You, boy!" She lifted her other hand and pointed at him, accusing. "I would've been much better off without _you_!" With the latter word, she shook him. She still had one hand coiled around his wrist. She still drilled into his skin. "I never even wanted you in the first place!"

He realized that he had lost most of his composure. Richie would not show his mother that the words affected him. He would not show her that the words fucked him up. And so, if there were any threatening tears rimming his eyelids, he blinked them away. He knew that, at the moment, there were several reasons as to why he would be crying, but he seemed to be partially crying from, not the sharpness of her words or even the content of them, but the pain of which had started spreading up his entire arm. Ridiculously, he felt like laughing.

"You were nothing but a mistake, you money-sucking leech!" she continued. "I would have _EVERYTHING I EVER WANTED_ if it weren't for _you_ being born! I even married your father! I did that for _THE MONEY_ I got in return! His wealth was everything to me, even when I was nineteen. But you came into the picture and took it all up into your grubby little hands!"

Richie wanted to retaliate, " _YOU SELFISH BAT! I THOUGHT YOU WERE SINCERE ALL OF MY LIFE, BUT MERLIN, WAS I WRONG! YOU'RE JUST A GOLD-DIGGING, NO GOOD, LOUSY AS HELL EXCUSE OF A MOTHER!"_ He bit his words back somehow. He was not known for his immaculate temper, that was for sure, so him holding back had been rather shocking to even himself.

"Now you, boy, better be grateful for everything that we've given you." Her tone was not as loud, he realized, but she still showed hints of clear ferocity. She licked her lips, then continued: "I wouldn't give you anything if I could. I would _leave_ you if it meant that I could live down in Bermuda on the beach with some fruity alcoholic drink in my hand, you misbehaved son of a bitch!"

Richie took a chance. "That's _terribly_ selfish of you, mother. If you did such thing, I would fend for myself—"

She scoffed, "You wouldn't last! You're spoiled rotten! You would come crawling back to your father and I in _days._ ”

“I would _not_! In fact, I would leave right now if I could!” Despite what his mother said of indirectly _hating_ him, he regretted the words instantly. He didn’t know what he’d do if he was forced out of the house so hostilely.

“Why don’t you?” She smiled, pleased with herself.

“I would—” he started, but cut himself off. He stared at her, stoic-faced. Then, he admitted it, “I don’t know.”

“See? You’re dependent on us! A spoiled _child_!”

"A child? I'm of _age_! I can Apparate and do whatever I fucking well please! I have—"

"Don't start with that foul language!"

"You dirty _hypocrite!_ "

Then, all hell broke loose. It was like the world had been cast into fast-motion, a blur of muddled colors.

In her blind ferocity, she noticed a shelf beside her, selected a flower-patterned vase from it, and smashed it— not onto the floor, but onto Richie. She screamed as she did so, loud and boisterous. And, as it seemed, it looked as if she had broken the vase across his arm because it had been closest to her, but, with the strength she'd shown tonight, she could've easily broken it against his head if she pleased.

As a shard of the vase broke loose, it sliced down the front of his arm. Richie cried out in pain, the shock of the hostility she had shown still fresh in his mind— close to the surface. What had been left was a cut, and it was about as deep as if he had sliced it himself. It was long and serrated, sure to leave an irritated scar— one that would last.

At that moment, sometime after his emotions startled to settle, there were but two things on his mind; one, his left arm hurt like hell and two, 'drunk words are sober thoughts'

Then, as if he had been shocked back to life, he reacted. He turned cheek to his mother. He had never once in his life even thought of doing such thing, but with recent events, he didn't feel wicked in doing so. He had _always_ gotten along with his mother, so this feeling— this _crushing_ feeling— was so new to him that it made his very heart physically hurt. He wondered then where his father was, for, if his father were home, he would’ve heard her yelling without a doubt and would’ve come barreling down the stairs with a frantic question of what had happened.

He bounded to his bedroom— took the staircase three steps at a time— _anything_ to escape his mother. He did this without a thought of his missing textbook and the summer homework of which loomed over his head like a thunderstorm cloud. Instead, he seethed as he slammed the door shut behind him.

Richie backed into his closed bedroom door and slid down it until he sat on the floor. As if holding his knees close to his chest had sparked something buried far inside of him, he started to sob. His shoulders shook as he cried, eyes pouring tears— big ones, ugly ones— and suddenly, he wished, not for the first time, that he wasn't human at all. If he weren't human— if he were emotionless and unfeeling— he wouldn't cry. In fact, if that were so, he _couldn't_ cry. It was, however, a pipe dream. An extremely false hope.

He couldn't for the life of him remember the last time that he had cried this much. For some reason, he doubted there even _was_ such a time. He held his hand over his mouth the second that he realized what he was doing, feeling unnecessarily shameful. He yanked the glasses off of his thin face, so obviously unconcerned about whether or not he broke them as he hurled them across the room and onto his unmade bed.

At that moment, he felt completely and utterly helpless. Ridiculously, despite his tears and despite his sadness, he felt like laughing. For his entire life, he had believed that his mother had cared for him more than she had cared for anything in the entire world. He was wrong. Plain and simple. His mother cared for only the wealth— for only the fortune— not for someone at all, in fact, much less her own child. Richie wondered what his father thought of this. Did he know that his wife married him for only the fortune?

Richie _needed_ to talk to his father, but, of course, he had no idea where he was. If Richie revealed to his father what his mother had confessed, and his father was unknowing of it all before said confession, their marriage could easily crumble and, just as easily, diminish into nothing at all. Richie didn't know if he wanted that or not. If Richie revealed to his father what his mother had confessed, and his father knew of it all along, Richie would much rather them divorce, for their marriage would not be built on one-sided love at all, but two-sided deceit. He knew, however, that he had no influence on their decision. He was his mother's spoiled rotten child that she regretted even having, right?

'I would've been much better off without _you_!' the words resounded in his head. Could that be true? ‘You were nothing but a mistake!’

Only then did he remember what she had done to him— physically, that is.

His realization, it seemed, had caused him to actually feel it. Perhaps the adrenaline (and the crying) had distracted him from it. Now, however, he felt it. The back of his arm was throbbing, so violently that he was surprised that his bones hadn't ripped through their surrounding skin.  The cut itself was long and serrated, coated with smudged blood. He could see where his skin had started to separate and felt it even worse. Wincing, he pulled his wand out from of the waistbank of his underwear with his other hand. Aiming it at the base of the wound, he mumbled a powerful healing spell, "Vulnera Sanentur..."

He watched his would mend— the skin start to move on its own. It was mesmerizing, and he was surprised when it didn't hurt. All that was left was a white scar that would fade with time, he assumed. He stuck his wand back into his waistband and lent back against the door, sighing.

If his barn owl, Bertie (not only was he named after one of Richie's favorite candies, he was named with a pun: Bertie was a birdie), hadn’t hooted for his attention, he would’ve likely remained on the floor for the entirety of the night. Richie blinked several times, like he had only _just_ remembered that his owl was there in the first place, and shoved himself back onto his feet. Unseeing, he shuffled toward the blurred outline of his bed, felt around the sheets for his glasses, and rammed them back onto his face. With his vision restored, he could walk over to Bertie without tumbling over his clothes-encrusted floor, and he did so with relative ease. Bertie was perched on the horns of the chifferobe, and all he did for several seconds was blink. Then, he hooted once more.

As if it made something _click_ inside of his head, he knew exactly what he had to do. He threw himself into his desk chair, found a bit of parchment, and scribbled onto it:

_Dear Stanley,_

_It would be a true Christmas miracle (Can Christmas in July be an exception? I mean, it was about a month ago… but who cares?) if you actually got this letter before tomorrow, but... who knows? Do you think Bertie has gotten stronger with his old age? I doubt it. (It would be another Christmas miracle, wouldn’t it?) Hey! He just nipped at me! Do you think that birds can read? Wouldn’t that be insane?! Anyway… the idea for writing this letter was thrown at me like a stack of bricks. Bricks of fate, I assume? That was figurate, so don't worry! I know that I tend to write wicked sentence fragments, but bear with me here, Stanley, because once you get past a shit-ton of aimless rambling, you'll get to the good, juicy stuff. I don't know if I can necessarily call it 'good' though, mate, because this shit messed with me big time._

_It all started when I remembered that I needed a book from downstairs to finish the summer homework (don't kill me for not finishing it! please!) so I went downstairs to find it. When I got there, the first thing I noticed was my mum. She was drinking. She turned around and took me from around the arm (forcefully, I might add) and kind of shook me around real good. She started spilling this shit about how I was the reason for this or something and I asked her what that meant and, I don't know, it must have set her off. She screamed this stuff about how I was just a mistake and that I didn't belong here and that she never wanted me in the first place. I was totally freaking out when she went on about how she only married my dad for the money and about how she wished that she could live in Bermuda or something. I wrote you this, Stanley (see? I even used your real name!) because I knew that you'd know the right thing to say. You'd know exactly how to handle this, I'm sure of it. So please, please write me back as soon as you get this._

In his own slanted cursive, he wrote:

_Seriously, mate. Write back fast,_

_Trashmouth ...-..._

He rolled his finished letter into a scroll of some sort, and fastened it around his owl. "Take this to Stanley..." he ordered, voice soft as he fed Bertie an owl treat. "And make it as fast as you can. This is _really_ important. Stan needs to reply before tomorrow."

Richie unlatched his window. Instantly, the cool, late-summer air seeped into his bedroom. His charcoal curls were forced back with the breeze, parting his already-disheveled hair in an awkward, crooked line down the middle of his head. Richie led Bertie to the window, and, with a small push, sent him on his way.

* * *

_Dear Richie,_

_Here I am, writing back as fast as I could. Also, I will give you snaps for your use of Morse Code. Quite impressive. It's really annoying to decipher, you know. And time-consuming. Not to mention, counter-productive since you wanted me to write back so quickly. But, then again, I guess I should've known that I spelt out: SOS. Also, there were so many grammatical mistakes in that letter than it physically pained me to read it, but, considering your situation, I'll choose to overlook them._

_Anyway, I can see your dilemma with your mother. It must be quite stress-inducing. I can tell that you believe what your mother said, mate, and it makes me uneasy. Are you sure that your mother really meant it? You said it yourself— she was drinking. Do you think she could've been drunk enough to make all of that stuff up? You, of all people, would know what it feels like to be drunk. I would know how to handle a drunk person, seeing how 'efficiently' you dealt with your drink at the New Years celebration with Bill and the other Gryffindors. But I suppose that I can see where you'd believe her, too. There must have been something about the way she said it, right? Something that had you 100% convinced?_

_I just thought about it, and I think that the way you should handle this is to simply wait. You need to wait until your mother sobers up. Perhaps the morning? You need to see if she remembers spilling all of her secrets, all right? If she remembers, go from there. Handle it like your gut tells you to, mate. I trust you'll choose the right path. If she doesn't remember, don't remind her. Go off to school, Richie, and don't let it bother you. It's your last year and I don't want you fretting over what your mother drunkenly confessed for the entire year._

_I hope you'll learn the real moral of this story: Drinking is stupid._

_Best wishes,_

_Stanley Uris_

_P.S. As it turns out, I accidentally picked up your Transfiguration textbook during one of the times that we studied together. You should know that I'm terribly sorry about that, seeing as it's plausibly the reason why you went downstairs and spoke with your mother. I magically shrunk it, wrapped it, and attached it to Bertie. This was all done with love, you should know. I feel terribly guilty. And, not to mention, like a wicked person. I'll buy you something on the train, all right? See you tomorrow!  
_

If Richie had had the time to write him back, he would’ve asked him how he had managed to read into his feelings like that. How had Stan been able to gather that Richie believed everything that his mother had said before even Richie knew it? Of course, he had known it deep, deep down, but it hadn’t actually been brought to the surface.

He was thankful that Stan had written him back so fast. After Richie had sent off the letter, he had swallowed down all of his emotions like a particularly bad potion. He had worked on as much as he could for almost two hours before Bertie had pecked at his window, wanting to be let in. Richie almost knocked over his chair in his haste to retrieve the letter from Bertie. He had united it, unrolled it, and read it.

He didn’t know if he could handle the anticipation of _waiting_ for his mother to sober, but he supposed that he would have to. He knew that he couldn’t stand to face her in her state at the moment, so he complied with the wise words of his friend. He shoved the letter into his trunk, saving it for a reason unknown to him. Perhaps, he could use the words in another situation.

He threw himself back into his desk chair and chipped at his homework. It was around midnight when he _finally_ finished, but he couldn’t care less about the time since it seemed so frivolous. He shoved his finished homework into his trunk as well, then closed it. He pulled off his glasses, placed them on his bedside table, and threw himself into his bed. Despite his tiredness, sleep would come _much_ later. He couldn’t seem to relieve his mind of his mother’s words.


End file.
